“Come in, King, and sit down and rest yourself,” I said, pointing to an easy chair on the portico.
“I am not tired, Miss Mary, and would rather stand,” he replied.
And he did stand, with his hat in his hand; and I thought for the first time in my life, probably, that he evinced a true manhood, worthy of Caucasian lineage; not that there was a drop of Caucasian blood in his veins, for he was a perfect specimen of the African race and as black as Erebus.
The suspense was becoming painful, when it was broken by King asking:
“Miss Mary, is Miss Polly at home?”
“Yes, King, and I will tell her you are here.”
“Miss Polly,” my mother and King’s mistress, soon appeared and gave him a genuine welcome.
King now lost no time in making known the object of his visit, and thus announced it:
“Miss Polly, don’t you want to sell me?”
“No; why do you ask?”